Randy White - Night Vision

Phone to my ear, I took a slow breath and said, “Tomlinson, if you care anything about our friendship, please don’t say a word. Just listen.”

The instant he tried to respond I stopped him, saying, “I’m warning you, this is serious. And please don’t use my name-or tell Emily it’s me.”

After a reassuring silence, I told him, “I need your help. I’m counting on you.” Because it was true, I added, “You’re the only person I trust with my life.”

During another long pause, I imagined the man’s mind trying to rally. Tomlinson claims that his brain conceals what he calls “a sober lifeguard twin” who comes to his rescue in demanding situations no matter how wasted he happens to be. He claims his ever-sober twin has saved him from suspicious cops and freak storms at sea.

Because of my tone, I suspected that Tomlinson was summoning that lifeguard now.

Finally, he said, “Anything you want. You can count on me.”

As he spoke, I could hear Emily in the background, asking, “Is it for me? Why are you using my phone?” The woman, at least, sounded sober, but I wasn’t going to entrust her with what had to happen next.

As I spoke to Tomlinson, I used short sentences. I kept my directions concise. Lifeguard twin or not, the man still sounded slobbering drunk.

Half an hour later, I sat in my truck in the shadows of the boatyard that adjoins Tomlinson’s rum bar. The bar’s party lights and its underwater lights were still on, but the place was closed.

Twice, cop cars cruised past, probably changing watches at Red Citrus, I guessed. Each time, as my knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, I felt Tula pat my arm, trying to calm me.

When a Yellow Taxi finally appeared, pulling beneath the security light near Hanson’s Shrimp Yards-exactly as I had instructed Tomlinson-I leaned, kissed Tula’s singed hair and told her, “You’re safe now. Tomlinson’s waiting. He won’t ask you any questions. He promised me-and I trust him.”

Then I sat back and watched the girl run toward the security light into my pal’s waiting arms.

Aside from a few accidental meetings at the marina-“awkward” would describe our exchanges-it was the last time I saw the man until that early Sunday morning when I noticed two familiar figures appear from the strand of sea oats that separate the West Wind Inn from the beach.

I was a hundred yards from shore, waiting for a good wave. I watched the figures stop… scan the water… and then both people waved.

It was Tomlinson, looking absurd in a pink sarong. Emily was beside him.

I had been avoiding the couple, it was true. But I waved in reply, anyway, because petty demonstrations of anger are, in my opinion, the equivalent of cancerous little cells that eat away at the quality of a person’s life.

Why not? I was feeling pretty good because I’d already had some fun. Waves had tumbled me and humbled me, confirming, with supreme indifference, that I still had a lot to learn about paddleboard surfing.

My ego is still sufficiently adolescent, though, that I became determined to make my final ride to the beach stylish enough to impress Tomlinson and, more important, Emily.

Maybe I tried too hard. That’s probably what happened. Only a few seconds into the ride, the board nose-dived, then pearled. I went flying.

Because I deserved it, I expected both Emily and my pal to be laughing as I carried the board to the beach. Not derisive laughter. The variety that comforts a friend after he has looked foolish.

Instead, they both appeared oddly serious as I approached. It became more serious-and confusing-when the woman marched toward me, then took my face in her hands. She stared into my eyes for a moment before saying, “This is an intervention! That’s why we’re here.”

More confused, I said, “Huh?”

The woman explained, “An intervention. It’s a sort of last-resort tactic that’s supposed to work on alcoholics and habitual gamblers. So we decided that maybe, just maybe, it would work on someone as obsessively stubborn, bullheaded and downright dumb as you.”

I replied, “ We decided?” moving my head to look at Tomlinson.

The man rolled his eyes and shrugged as if to distance himself from what was happening. “I wouldn’t call Doc dumb,” he said. “The rest of it’s true, yeah. Especially the ‘obsessive-stubborn’ deal. But ‘dumb,’ that’s taking it a little too far.”

I replied, “ Thanks, pal,” and broke away from Emily’s grip long enough to place my board on the sand.

A moment later, though, she was cupping my face in her hands again. There were tears, I noticed, welling in her eyes, so I stood quietly and paid attention.

“We both know what you’ve been thinking about Tomlinson and me, and you’re wrong,” the woman said. “I’ve called you more than a dozen times. I sent you e-mails, trying to explain. I came to the marina twice, but each time you were off somewhere doing God knows what on your boat. It’s been more than ten days, damn it!”

Emily’s hands dropped to her sides and formed fists to illustrate her frustration. “I thought you cared about me, Doc! I wanted to talk with. No… I needed to talk with you! The night you called my cell phone, the night Tomlinson answered, why didn’t you at least have the courtesy to explain to me that you were in trouble? If you’d told me you the truth, that you were in trouble and needed help, I would have been there for you, damn it!”

I tried to remain expressionless as slowly, very slowly, I shifted my attention to Tomlinson. My throat was tight as I asked the man, “You told her about what happened that night?”

Even when he’s stoned, Tomlinson has wise old eyes, a prophet’s eyes, some say. He stared back at me now, though, with clear eyes, his gaze steady. “I didn’t tell her the specifics,” he replied. “Just enough so she would understand.”

I said, “Well, discretion has never been your strong suit,” not caring now if Emily realized that I was suddenly furious.

Sounding unflappable, Tomlinson continued, “I figured it would be okay. So I explained that your truck broke down in Immokalee and a couple of the rednecks were giving you a hard time. But I didn’t mention the cops-or the drunken waitress at the barbecue place.”

Emily said, “What drunken waitress?” as I studied the man’s face in surprise, wondering how any human being could lie so effortlessly.

I exhaled a slow breath, very relieved. “It was an ugly scene,” I told Emily. “There was no reason to get you involved.”

I expected the lie to calm the woman. Instead, it made her madder. Emily put her hands on her hips and leaned toward me, saying, “No, the truth is, you thought your buddy and I had something going on that night. Didn’t you? Just because he answered my phone at one-thirty in the morning. That we both got stoned and jumped in the sack or something-like I’m some sort of easy tramp. That’s why you didn’t want me to help you. That’s why you’ve been avoiding both of us. Tell the truth, Doc.”

Glancing at Tomlinson, I did tell the truth. “It wouldn’t be the first time that it’s happened,” I said.

Smiling, Tomlinson was walking toward us. “I explained that to her, Doc,” he said. “I’m a sinner, God knows it, and now Emily knows it. But what you need to understand is that my premonition of fire almost came true. That’s why I was still there at Emily’s house. Trust me, she couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.”

The woman was protesting, “That’s not exactly true,” as Tomlinson continued, “Remember that old drawing I showed you, the woman falling into a wall of flames? I followed Emily back to her place just like you told me. Just as I was pulling away, she came running out, saying maybe she smelled smoke.”